Look Down
by Xxsweet-venom-kissxX
Summary: Scabior, having spent a decade in Azkaban, is finally given his parole. Given back his freedom, with the yellow slip of paper and the tattoo to remind him he was not really free at all. A parallel to the prologue of Les Miserable. One-shot.


**Well, it's been a while. I haven't written anything for the Harry Potter fandom since June, and I haven't had time to work on any of my other stories (Honors sophomore project, which is a 25-plus page paper, eats up a lot of time). **

**I saw Les Miserable and am on a Scabior kick again. **

**This is only going to be a one-shot. It's just something that came into my head and I thought it would be interesting to explore. **

**It's inspired by the song and scene of the Prologue from Les Miserable; it will **_**not **_**be a song-fic. There will be little snippets of lines from the "Prologue: Work Song" spread in the descriptions or in dialogue as a shout-out or reference to the original work.**

**I own nothing except Inspector Rochelle. Enjoy.**

* * *

It was debatable on whether he was colder here or in his cell. The sea beat upon the foundation of heavy stone, where the task of digging graves for the newly dead was placed upon the shoulders of selected inmates. The larger waves sometimes crashed higher than the usual break line, and dumped salty water and foam onto the shivering forms.

He decided his cell was likely warmer, despite the wet stone and the rats he shared it with.

The men were selected for their sanity, their lesser charges, and their expendability. The first because there was still something left for them to lose and sane people were rational, easier to control. The second because murderers were dangerous and potentially unpredictable. The third because if a few of them fell into the sea, it would be no great loss other than another body to add to the pile.

There was an agreement in the silence to not look up. Look down, keep your eyes on the hole in front of you or the feet of the Aurors giving orders. Don't look them in the eye, don't look up at the Dementors.

Looking down meant keeping your head. Meant you got to live, despite the life sentence.

A few of them mumbled that they had done no wrong, they were innocent.

Didn't they know? Everyone in Azkaban was innocent.

Some were convinced the girl they loved would wait for them to get out. That the twenty year sentence would go by in a flash, and they'd be together again.

Poor saps, he thought, wiping a soaked strand of hair from his face. Poor, poor, bloody saps.

Everyone that knew them in a previous life had forgotten them. Moved on. Who wasted time on a criminal? They were here, many of them, until they died. Here until they turned to dust or dumped into the sea.

In their sleep, many of them begged for mercy. Mumbled to Merlin, to any higher being willing to listen, for mercy and permission to die. He wondered if they found it ironic to be digging the graves for the newly deceased.

They were standing in their own graves.

A large wave came and smacked a group of them, Scabior included. He wiped the water from his eyes as best he could and pressed the heel of his holey boot to the shovel's spade so it broke ground, only for that to have been redundant. His foot was now soaked and covered in mud and cold water. The ground was too soft now; he'd need a bucket, not a shovel.

Despite the constant cloud cover, darker shadows passed over them occasionally. The Dementors flew around, as if to taunt them. Taunt them to look and see the Aurors standing on the ledges above them, look further into the face of an inhuman creature.

There was always one Auror, an inspector, that everyone had a general fear for: Inspector Rochelle. She was known for her obsessive behavior-she would set her eyes on a target and keep going, convinced the one person she suspected was guilty. She stopped at nothing until the criminal was brought to court and sentenced. Some compared her to a bull when it sees red, but he often thought that too demeaning.

Her single-mindedness had its uses. She had been wrong a few times, grudgingly apologizing for the trouble she put the person through. But she had passion and the drive. A little archaic, given He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was defeated twelve years ago; necessary because notorious Sirius Black was on the loose.

She was the one who had handled his case, twice. He would have considered her pretty if she wasn't so serious and rigid.

Scabior heard wet footsteps approaching him, heavy and solid. Boots, heavy-duty, and well-worn pants underneath a robe; two of the Aurors who manned his wing of the prison. He stabbed the saturated ground with the shovel and turned to them, glancing at their faces to acknowledge them.

"Prisoner 35809?" One of them asked.

"Tha's me." He stretched his neck to the side to display the brand of Azkaban, where the numbers were etched into his skin.

"Come with us."

Arms grabbed him roughly out of the shallow hole, which was given another living soul in his place to finish. He felt the presence of a Dementor follow them as he was practically dragged back inside and up flights of stairs, the chains on his feet rattling the whole way. He was shivering violently from the cold, and he found it difficult to try not to think about it or control it.

He was shoved to the floor of a small room that was used by the Aurors, a room with a view; it held a ledge that extended slightly beyond the iron bar door, enough for a person to stand and watch below.

A decent drop and a sudden stop if one wasn't careful.

"Prisoner 35809, as you requested, Inspector." The gruff voice announced.

Scabior felt like an animal left out in the rain, looking up at its master. His hair was plastered to his head, his cheeks gaunt underneath the layer of facial hair. Rochelle looked ever-pristine in clean robes, blouse and pants, dragon-hide boots of remarkable make. Her badge gleamed upon her breast, the only glistening piece in the room.

Her eyes were cold, and the pelting rain outside seemed far more warmer than them. Her mousy brown hair was loosely braided and draped over her shoulder. She seemed to analyze him for a moment before going over to the desk shoved in a corner; there was a pile of files, some thicker than others, laying there. She pulled out a specific one and a yellow slip of paper from another, scribbling information with an available quill.

"Prisoner 35809, your time is up." She said, turning to the man on the floor. "Your parole has begun. You know what that means."

Parole? Usually he had to go in front of a board from the Wizengamot to get that, regardless of charges. Or were they too busy to do it nowadays? He was free. No more cold nights, no more screaming, no more mumbling, no more Dementors tormenting him…

"Yeah, it means I'm free." He had a desire to smile despite his shivering, but held back. Rochelle couldn't see that he was happy or she'd snatch that away.

He caught a glimpse of triumph in her eyes; she'd kick him right back down with a few choice words. "No. You get a little yellow ticket-of-leave, you disgusting thief."

"I stole a purse o' Galleons." He countered.

"You robbed a man's house for his life savings." She turned back to the desk and rolled up the yellow paper before turning her attention back to him, paper in her hand..

"I broke a window. My mum needed money for a Healer. She was dyin'. And I was 'ungry."

"Then you'll be hungry again, lest you understand the laws in place." Her words could have turned the water dripping from his hair into icicles.

"I know the meaning of ten years as a slave to the law." He spat, glaring up at her.

"Two years for what you did. The eight because you tried to escape by stealing an Auror's wand and threatening his life." She wove her fingers through his hair, and tugged, forcing him to look up at her when he cast his eyes back down. "Oh, yes, 35809, you didn't think I'd remember that, did you?"

"My name is Scabior. Anthony Raglan Scabior." He growled.

"And I'm Rochelle. But you know that. Do not forget me," she pulled tighter on his hair, pulling him off his knees. "Do not forget my name, 35809."

She let go, and he fell back to the floor, upon the dirt and grime of centuries past. A yellow scroll was dangled in his face, and he took it, holding onto it as if it was his only lifeline. The other Aurors picked him and dragged him off to where he could pick up his wand and the clothes he came in, which were baggy and short in sleeves and legs. He looked like he mugged a child until a wave of another wand extended them to cover his wrists and ankles.

He was Aparated into the Ministry, his parole scroll signed and the orders to report once a week for a signature and to keep the paper on him at all times given. For the rest of his life, he'd have to carry around papers that declared he had spent time in the Wizarding prison. Jobs wouldn't want him, landlords wouldn't want him. The idea of even dealing with someone who had spent ten years in that hell scared most.

He would bear the mark on his neck until he died, as if the yellow paper wasn't enough of a choke-hold.

* * *

Some four years or so later, he found himself standing in a frilly office with pink walls and plates of meowing cats staring at him. He felt dingy and dark in the girlish room; a speck of dirt on a shoe or a smudge of ink on a new shirt.

The woman behind the desk was dressed in the same shade of pink as her walls. She looked like a toad, and he had seen that her feet barely touched the floor from her chair behind her desk. Her smile was fake and too cheerful and her hair neatly done.

"I'm 'ere to apply for the position, ma'am." He put on his best, polite demeanor. He needed the job, and maybe, just maybe, this could work.

"Yes, I'm aware. You look familiar; I could have sworn there were fliers for you out and about…" She looked expectantly at him, but got no reply. "I have your file, Mr. Scabior."

A fat folder with his name on the tab and a picture clipped to the front was pulled from a drawer and dropped dramatically on the desk.

"You served ten years right out of Hogwarts for stealing and trying to evade prison time. Nothing severe, but…a law-breaker nonetheless. You haven't shown up for parole in nearly four years. If anything, I should hand you over to Rochelle this instant. I do not care for law-breakers, no matter how…trivial or good-willed the acts seemed."

"There's a 'but' in there somewhere, ain't there?" He dared to ask.

"But…given the circumstances, and your Pureblood status, I'm sure eyes can look the other way for your aid to the cause. One man who broke parole over the Undesirables that are roaming this country? I'll be sure to put a word in with Rochelle to leave you be."

He left the office with a red band around his arm and a black book of names. Time to find some willing hands.


End file.
